


if ever there was someone who could make things heavenly again

by labellelunaclaire



Series: AUgust 2020 [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU-gust 2020, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Canon Era, M/M, Nephilim, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellelunaclaire/pseuds/labellelunaclaire
Summary: Day 4 — Angels & DemonsThe Musain was a safe haven. For demons, children of incubi and succubi, nephilim, and one lone angel.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: AUgust 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860763
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32
Collections: AUgust 2020





	if ever there was someone who could make things heavenly again

**Author's Note:**

> This is — inexplicably — the first Les Mis fic I’ve ever actually posted. So weird, considering Les Mis was a huge part of my life for several years there and I read a ton of fanfiction. It’s even a large part of what brought my now-fiancée and I together (her engagement ring is engraved with the words _Permets-tu?_ ). I just never got around to finishing any of the many fics I started writing back then, so I’m making up for lost time with AUgust.

Grantaire was prone to bouts of sloth and gluttony. But it wasn’t his fault. It was just a part of his nature. To question why he was the way he was would be to question God Himself. And Grantaire didn’t question God. Questions ended with the Fall.

So Grantaire drank and he slept and he did not question.

Not out loud, at least. Not when he was sober.

Not that it mattered. God knew all. God heard all.

Grantaire sometimes questioned himself, though. Sometimes, like when he was nursing a bottle of wine at his corner table in the Musain.

Like now.

He shouldn’t have spent so much time at the Musain. To an outsider, the Musain and its patrons appeared utterly normal, if a little run down and eclectic.

Most of them were anything but.

Some were simple humans, but they were the minority, for the Musain had become a safe haven of sorts for those with tainted blood.

The nephilim, sired by Heaven; the angels that God didn’t create.

The devil’s spawn, born of succubi and incubi; the demons humanity couldn’t burn.

The demons themselves; the angels God cast from Heaven.

And one lone angel.

Grantaire took another drink. He _really_ shouldn’t be here.

But here he was, sitting in his corner table as usual, socializing with the group that called themselves Les Amis.

At the center of the room was a golden man.

Or, more accurately, a man shaped being so perfect and beautiful he looked as if he were cast in pure gold. Surely, if Grantaire ran his fingers through those bright curls, he’d find they were fine threads of precious metal. And it wasn’t just his perfect locks, but the bright glow that seemed to emanate from within him, hot like the sun, inspiring passion in the entire group. And always beside him were his lieutenants, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, loyal soldiers in the war he longed to fight.

Enjolras had always been a fighter. Grantaire had seen it in him even before the Fall. But the Fall just radicalized him further, turning him into a white-hot beacon of righteous fury.

Or maybe righteous fury wasn’t the right phrase for him anymore. Grantaire wasn’t sure how he should describe him these days.

“Share a glass with a friend, R?” Éponine asked, pulling up a chair next to him, already reaching for the bottle in front of him to fill her glass.

As children of incubi went, Éponine was enjoyable enough company. She was straightforward and spoke her mind, a quality Grantaire always thought admirable in mortals. She was a plain girl and wore clothes so worn and threadbare you could practically see through to her stays.

“And how are you on this fine revolutionary eve?” Éponine asked after taking a swig, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Just waiting for it to be over,” Grantaire said gruffly, topping off his own glass with barely drinkable wine.

“We both know that’s not true,” she replied with an eagle eyed glare. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself, R? Is it some masochistic desire to test yourself?”

“Just observing the fray,” he said, one of his stock responses that felt more and more like a lie every day. He glanced around the room, trying to keep Éponine from noticing how his eyes lingered on Enjolras.

“Of course you are.” She sounded entirely unconvinced.

The room quieted down as the triumvirate in the center began to speak, first Courfeyrac, charismatic and friendly, then Combeferre, logical and knowing, and finally Enjolras, all passion and fury personified.

Grantaire didn’t listen much to the specifics of what they had to say. It was always the same basic topic of injustice and suffering. He’d heard it all before. Such subjects were all Enjolras had ever spoken of, ever since Grantaire had met him, millennia ago.

“It doesn’t matter,” he found himself saying, the wine loosening his lips a little too much. “We’re all just pawns on a chess board, the game mapped out to its final play by our Creator.”

Enjolras’s eyes snapped to Grantaire.

“So we should just stand by and do nothing?” he asked sharply. “Allow the world to pass us by without trying to fix what’s wrong with it?”

“And why not? If it’s the will of God that some should suffer, who are any of us to question it?”

“And what if it’s the will of God that the people rise up? How are any of us to know what God truly wants?”

“I’m sure God doesn’t want his original creations meddling in the lives of mortals, which is what you’ve been doing since the Beginning, _mon ange_.”

His words were cruel, and it showed as Enjolras’s face twitched at the nickname, but he charged on regardless.

“Are you putting words into _God’s_ mouth, _Grantaire_?” he asked with a sneer.

It was a challenge, Grantaire knew that.

Grantaire kicked back in his chair in a lazy, haphazard stance that he knew Enjolras hated. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew. And so did everyone else. Éponine kicked one of the legs of his chair lightly, a warning to pull back now.

He didn’t.

“Of course not,” he said easily, grabbing the bottle from the table and holding it in a silent toast. “That would be blasphemous. Which is something you should be a little more concerned about, my friend.”

“Did you learn _nothing_ from the fall?” Enjolras snapped.

“Only one of us Fell, Enjolras,” Grantaire pointed out, punctuating his words with a swig from his bottle.

“And I surely can’t Fall twice, now, can I?” Enjolras countered coldly, his electric eyes burning with an intense anger.

The room went deadly silent.

“God let me know _exactly_ where I stood to Him when He cast me out of Heaven six _thousand_ year ago,” Enjolras said in a smooth, low voice. “I gave up _everything_ for what I believed in. For _justice_ and _freedom_. I paid the price I had to for the chance to make things right.”

“Those who suffer will find salvation in death,” Grantaire recited, though he wasn’t sure he truly believed it. But not believing in what they were told was the same as questioning, so he told himself that he _must_ believe it.

“That’s bullshit and we both know it,” Enjolras spit out, shaking off the calming hand that Combeferre tried to place on his arm. “God doesn’t give a fuck about any of the people suffering! He hasn’t for a long time!”

“Enjolras,” Jehan said warningly, his black eyes darting up to the ceiling with a fear that most demons still held.

Enjolras was not deterred, though. If anything, his friends’ anxious responses only emboldened him, as did the pious expression Grantaire was working to keep on his face.

“If God really cared, He’d do something about my blasphemy!” Enjolras yelled, stretching out his arms and tilting his head upwards. “If I’m so wrong, so out of place, then may He strike me down right now where I stand!”

The room was filled with a sudden cacophony of sound and movement as wooden chairs scraped across wooden floors, everyone desperate to back away from their beloved leader, and shouts for him to stop. Only Grantaire remained where he was, staring the demon down with his arms crossed.

But after a few moments, Enjolras was still standing in the center of the room with his arms outstretched, looking horribly smug about his continued existence. And when it became clear that he was _not_ about to be struck down by the Almighty, everyone settled back down, still somewhat uneasy, into their seats.

“Are you quite finished?” Grantaire asked in a bored tone.

“Stop it, R,” Joly murmured from the table next to his. “Just let it go.”

He should. He knew he should. But there was just some part of him that couldn’t, that needed to challenge Enjolras until the very end.

Enjolras glared at him. “You’re just afraid,” he snarled.

Grantaire leaned in closer. “What was that?”

“You’re afraid,” Enjolras repeated. “You’re afraid that I’m right. You’re afraid that God really doesn’t care anymore. Why else would you be here, drinking day after day for centuries? Because God isn’t saying anything to anyone. Not anymore. And for you to accept that would be to accept that everything you believe in is a _lie_. And then what can you believe in?”

The two man shaped beings held eye contact for a long moment, and not a soul seemed to breathe in all of Paris. All of the amis, their friends, despite all differences, stayed still and silent. Waiting.

“I think I might be able to find something worth believing in,” Grantaire said softly as he set his bottle down, stood calmly, and walked out of the building without another word to anyone.

Grantaire did not question God.

Grantaire was prone to bouts of wrath and lust. But it wasn’t his fault. It was just a part of his nature. To question why he was the way he was would be to question God Himself. And Grantaire didn’t question God.

But nights like this, when he saw and heard the conviction with which Enjolras spoke, he didn’t need to question.

He knew.

He always knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Passion Pit’s _[To Kingdom Come](https://youtu.be/3n0Ut_rI2kc)_. If you’re looking for great exR songs, Passion Pit has you covered! I hope you enjoyed that little subversion of expectations, where Enjolras is the passionate demon who Fell for his beliefs and R is the disillusioned angel who toes the line.
> 
> Thank you to my fiancée for once again proofreading for me. At least this one is something you actually know about!


End file.
